


these hands are shaking

by nocturnes



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Morning Sex, Pining, RPF, Reflection, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnes/pseuds/nocturnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yunho realizes that he is in love, but that doesn't make it any easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these hands are shaking

**Author's Note:**

> I have wanted to write gay!Yunho in love with straight!Jaejoong for a very, very long time. Written in second person because the form lent itself well to what I wanted to get across. Partly inspired by [this](http://i188.photobucket.com/albums/z208/twilit_rain/tumblr_ljc9z0W3OD1qdbj1l.gif) gif. (God, Yunho, just _god_.) This is not a happy fic, and that should maybe be obvious, but just to warn you. As always, Richard Siken owns a piece of my soul. ♥ Full poem [here](http://intonations.tumblr.com/post/4865569385/littler-boot-theory-richard-siken-a-man).

_A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river_  
but then he’s still left  
with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away  
but then he’s still left with his hands. 

\- from "Boot Theory", by Richard Siken

\--

When it first hits you, it feels simpler than it should. Afterwards you are left reeling for days, as if you have just stepped off a roller coaster and need to rediscover gravity.

The five of you are in Paris. Your schedules are as busy as they have always been, but somehow being in a city on a different continent lifts the weight of duty from your activities. Junsu sings to himself a little louder, Yoochun falls asleep a little earlier, Changmin opens up a little more, and _he_ smiles just a little brighter.

You, well, you are staring much more than you would let yourself at home. Self-control, apparently, isn’t cross continental.

You are riding on a tour bus. Someone had booked it just for the five of you and the crew, and you drive around the city as the sun sets. He is bright, animated as he sings. He tilts his head back, laughing at some comment of Yoochun’s, and the fading sunlight catches in his blond hair.

His laugh sounds the same colour as the light, something just short of golden. He turns to look at you, and it is the happiest you have seen him look in years, utterly carefree.

_There it is_ , you think, _there_. Your heart is locked in a joust with your ribcage, threatening to break free, and you wonder if the world can hear it.

Maybe you have always been a little in love with him, but after that moment, you can no longer hide it from yourself.

The next day, when he and Yoochun fawn over the mile-long legs of a passing French girl, you pretend it doesn’t sting. Changmin sends you a knowing look, and you smile for the camera, pulling Junsu to you because he is the best comfort you have after all of these years.

You keep filming, fix your mouth into a smile and pretend the expression has been glued in place.

You are a professional, and everything is fine. Just...

Fine.

\--

He falls asleep on the plane ride home. You tuck a blanket around him and suck in air through your teeth when he shifts in his sleep, his head coming to rest on your shoulder. You clench your fingers into a fist on your thigh, allowing your nails to dig into skin. It’s all you can do to keep from resting your head on top of his, from pulling him close against your chest (where he could surely feel your racing heart), from pressing a kiss to his temple.

But you can’t, so you shiver as he breathes out against your neck, and try very hard to look like this is not affecting you at all.

\--

Mornings are the most difficult because you can’t help but compare them to what you wish you could have.

Over the years, you have become the group’s unofficial alarm clock. Your body has become attuned to waking up at the crack of dawn and showering before anyone else so much as shifts into a place halfway between awake and asleep.

You wake _him_ next. During the group’s early years you would let him rest, but one too many reprimands about him being the oldest and therefore wanting to shoulder some of the responsibility made you cave in to his requests.

You hold your breath as he shifts against your hand shaking his shoulder, then try not to stare as he blinks sleep from his eyes, looking at you blearily through his eyelashes. You like him best like this, free of make-up and sleepy and so completely human. He always mutters ‘thank you’, voice still scratchy, and you unfailingly wish he were thanking you for something else entirely.

Sometimes, you take the time to let yourself fantasize. It is harmless if it is just in your head, you think, a little something to take the edge off, to make sure you won’t do anything that you will regret. There isn’t much room for it with the crazy schedules you keep, and living with four other men doesn’t help, but when the tension builds up too much, you make time.

He is your bandmate, your _straight_ bandmate at that, but that doesn’t mean that you can just shut off how you feel, or how badly you want him. During your most sentimental moments, you think of how you would like to wake up to him every morning for eternity. How you would sell everything you have and everything you are if only it would mean that he could ever want the same.

\--

After a seven-hour dance practice, you shower after the rest of the group is already in bed. You turn the water up until it is so hot that it almost burns your skin, but you want it that way. The act provides release, but the water will cleanse you from what you still feel is sinful, even though you have not been to church in years and have been in doubt for even more.

You touch yourself slowly at first, hands sliding down your chest before you let yourself get anywhere near your cock, wanting it to last. You picture how you would really like to wake him up every morning, and the images flash as readily across your mind as if you had kept a reel of film on pause since the last time you had allowed yourself to give in to this desire.

You would slide under the covers next to him, your legs astride his as you lean over to kiss his forehead, each of his cheeks, the side of his mouth. He would stir awake underneath you, opening his eyes slowly, unsurprised because you wake him up like this every single day. His eyes would dart to your lips, tongue peeking out unconsciously to wet his own, before you would lean down to kiss him, warm and soft and gentle, the sort of kiss you think he should always wake up to.

Next you would kiss him deeper, your tongue sliding against his as he moans into your mouth, and you would be able to feel the vibration of it through his chest against your own. You would break away, kissing slowly down his neck and then near his left ear, and he would shiver against you. The right touch of your tongue and teeth would have him arching against you, and you would feel his hardening cock pressing against the cleft of your ass as you suck a mark onto his neck, just underneath his birthmark. 

You would kiss slowly down his chest, taking a nipple into your mouth for a moment and smiling against his skin as he tangles his fingers in your hair, trying to urge you downwards. You would give in because it is _him_ (you can never say no when he is involved) and would slowly pull his cotton pajama pants down past his hips to leave them gathered around his knees.

You would stare up at him through half-lowered eyelids and lick a stripe up his cock, watching his sharp intake of breath, his face flushed with pleasure as he bucks his hips towards your mouth. You would take him into your mouth so slowly it makes him whine, your lips stretched around the head of his cock. You would suck softly, tongue flicking at the slit. He would moan and arch into you, hands pulling on your hair so hard it would almost hurt, but not enough for you to ask him to stop. You would bob your head, taking in what you could and using your hand to finish the rest, never more thankful for a tongue that can bend in the oddest ways.

He would come apart in your mouth, curling towards you as you hold his hips down with your hands, your thumbs across his hipbones stroking him through the aftershocks. When you kiss him afterwards, he would taste himself on your tongue.

In reality you spill over your fist in the shower stall, biting your other hand to stifle your moan. The last thing you want is for any of the others to hear you coming with his name on your lips. The fear of being caught is almost enough to make you stop giving in to these fantasies, but God, even with as much as you have steeled your self-control, the amount you would need to stop wanting him, to stop thinking of him, to stop _loving_ him, would only belong to something super-human.

And as much as your fans have elevated you to god-like status, humanity is all you have to work with.

As it is, you turn the water dial to cold in an attempt to clean away the shame that washes over you, sudden and awful, but also what you think you deserve.

\--

The best part of your job, you think, is getting to watch him sing up close.

The ballads are your favourite, because you get to see what always feels like an outpouring of his soul, his voice soaring through the crescendos and dipping back down. His voice makes you shiver, goosebumps springing up along your arms, and you are unfailingly glad for the heat of the stage lights.

Hearing him sing is a strange, out of body experience, and there is nothing sexual in your thoughts when you listen to him ad-lib through a melody. After you dug yourself out of denial that had surprised you. Perhaps it is because when he sings, even you forget that he is a bandmate, that he has flaws that endear him to you.

Offstage, you love him for how unabashedly real he is. On it, he seems ethereal.

When you said that if you were not in the band, you would have been his fan, you weren’t lying. You doubt anyone out in the crowds that come to see you (see him) could possibly be as in love with him as you are, as you think you might always be.

\--

He and his girlfriend are getting serious.

You know the signs: he cooks her lunches at two in the morning when he should really be asleep; he retreats to his bedroom for hours at a time to talk to her on the phone in hushed whispers, the occasional bright laugh breaking through; he walks around half there, daydreaming of her, you’re sure, of kissing her, of making her squirm in the best possible ways.

You pretend to be happy for him, to be so overjoyed that you can’t stop smiling at the thought of him together with someone. In a way, it isn’t a lie, because you have since discovered that more than anything, you want him to be happy. Even if that happiness means that your heart feels like it has been ripped from your chest, torn out bleeding for the world to see.

Okay, so maybe you feel a little melodramatic sometimes. But the feeling remains the same: a dull yet constant ache in the centre of your chest. You rub at your sternum occasionally in an attempt to make it go away, but it never does.

He breaks up with her, or she with him. You don’t ask, not wanting the real answer.

For a second, you are overjoyed because the ache in your chest finally lifts. You feel freer in that moment than you have in months. But then you take in his face, his crushed expression, his mouth turned down at the edges as he looks at the floor and tries not to cry, and the pain returns, much more acute this time.

You have to quell the urge to envelope him in your arms, to pull him close to your chest, to stroke his hair away from his face and press kisses everywhere you can reach. You want to make him feel okay, but it isn’t your place.

Instead, you watch as Yoochun takes his hand and leads him out the door, probably for some comfort in the form of alcohol. You wish he wouldn’t, because you tend to worry, but you can hardly deny him a coping mechanism that works. If only you could find one yourself.

You wait up for them even though you don’t have to. He and Yoochun stumble in just before 4AM, the time all of you know is when the fans outside begin to clear out and go home. You stand in the shadows of the living room, ready to surge forward and support him should he stumble over his own feet.

Yoochun notices your presence as he leads him down the hallway, and he nods in understanding in your direction, passing him off to you and sending you a look that is far more perceptive than you would like.

He is dead weight in your arms, mumbling incoherently about schedules and not enough time and _oh_ , you think, that answers your question about who had broken up with whom.

You sit with him on the couch, his head pillowed on your shoulder and his arms wrapped around your waist. You should push him away, you know, if only for what this is going to do to your thoughts later, but you can’t because you know how vulnerable he is right now, how much he needs the touch of another person. The most selfish part of you is more than a little happy to be that person.

He cries, and you cradle him against your chest, wiping his tears away with your thumb and wishing more than anything that you could lean in and kiss his pain away. You are angry with _her_ for doing this to him, because in your opinion, he is the last person to deserve this. He gives so much to those he loves, falls so hard, so quickly.

You? You take your time until the feeling starts to burn and becomes blatant, impossible to ignore. Sometimes you feel like you could start your own fireworks show with how much you feel for him in a single, passing day.

He falls asleep against your chest, and you stroke his hair, more softly than you want to, but gently enough that he stays asleep. You feel dirty all of a sudden, like you have taken advantage of him even though you haven’t. You never do. When the guilt starts to feel suffocating, you get up and lay him down on the couch, tucking a blanket around him to keep him warm.

You go to the bathroom and strip out of your clothes with the strict meticulousness of a military officer. You turn the water up so hot that it scalds your skin, but you don’t care, because you need to be free from this oppressive feeling.

The water isn’t enough, but you don’t know what would be.

\--

On your twenty-third birthday, your wish as you blow out your candles is to be able to kiss him through post-concert afterglow, just once. He always looks so alive then, and you want to turn his love of the crowd into love for you, into more than just love for a bandmate. You want to kiss him until both of you are left gasping, until he stares at you with just as much want as you always direct his way. He never notices in the way you wish he would.

It’s impossible; you know that, more impossible than anything you have ever wanted before.

But that doesn’t keep you from wishing.

You allow yourself one little delusion each year. Why not start things off early?

\--

What feels like years after everything, you find yourself sitting alone in a subway station far too late at night. Now is the time when drunken businessmen come home, so you figure you are safe from prying eyes. The fact that the child you had asked earlier hadn’t known who you were just solidifies it in your mind. You are no longer what you once were, and you figure you had best get used to it, or just work all the harder to change that. Reality checks are good for you.

You would be lying if you said that you think of him only sometimes, because the fact of the matter is that being apart has not lessened your love for him. You sneak looks at the few interviews he does with the others, and it hurts to see him so broken, so drawn. It hurts even more to think that even if he does miss you, he can’t miss you in the same way that you miss him.

He talks about using alcohol as a comfort, a calmant, and you chuckle darkly to yourself, because recently you have turned to it too, when you had thought you never would. You glance at the bottle of whisky clutched in your fist and swirl the liquid inside the glass of the bottle, watching it eat at the sides, toxic and addictive. It works, at least for a little while, so you no longer care about what this reliance is doing to you.

When you close your eyes, you can still see his face as if he had been next you just yesterday, just minutes ago. You picture him most easily in Paris, when you had first realized just how deeply you had fallen for him. His hair, dyed dark blond, scattering sunlight. His head, thrown back as he laughs, exposing his neck. His hand, caught in one of yours, swinging back and forth as you walk down the street. You miss how simple it had been.

You glance down at the bottle in your hand and think it’s sort of funny that the one thing that you had disliked about him is now the only similarity drawing the two of you together.

When the train comes, you climb into the closest car. You don’t care about your destination. You want to go somewhere where you will no longer see his face etched behind your eyelids and always at the back of your mind. Somehow, you don’t think such a place exists.

Without letting yourself think about what you are doing, you get off near the Han River and walk to a bridge traversing it. The wind blows harsh and cold against you, breaking through your jacket and whipping your hair around your head. This had been a favourite place of his, and you wonder if it still is.

In the shadows between two streetlights, watching the dappled orange reflections they cast on the surface of the endless, dark water, you finally feel a little more at peace. 

Or at least, you think, you hope you are getting there.


End file.
